


crush & black 2.0

by janie_tangerine



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Bad Poetry, Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dominant Kylo Ren, Explicit Sexual Content, I Don't Even Know, Inappropriate Humor, Inspiration, Light Dom/sub, Love/Hate, M/M, Painting, Poetry, REALLY INAPPROPRIATE HUMOR, Rival Sex, Rough Sex, The Author Regrets Everything, What Have I Done, is2g this is the first and last time I do this, questionable life choices, thanks anish kapoor & stuart semple for the inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Kylo is a painter, Hux is a poet, they are each others's inspiration and they probably don't know how to feel about it. Their friends are perplexed by the results.





	crush & black 2.0

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY GUYS SO: I was taking prompts on tumblr this january and my good friend [strangepairs](http://strangepairs.tumblr.com/) prompted me _Kylo is a painter, Hux is a poet, they are each others's inspiration_ and this week I needed to write something short and I figured why the fuck not, let's branch out for a bit.
> 
> Spoilers: I don't usually do this dynamic nor this ship (I mean I'm cool with it it's just not my usual cup of tea) and given that I had to spit blood to do it because WHAT IS THIS DYNAMIC I fear it's not happening again but I tried. I don't even know. SORRY GUYS. I'LL GO BACK TO MY USUAL STUFF STARTING TOMORROW.
> 
> Warnings: PLEASE LOOK AT THE TAGS. These two are basically having pseudo-hate pseudo-rough sex sort of knowing what they're doing but I'm not even sure they do so like, thread lightly. Also, not a warning, but I can't write poetry and I can't write HAIKUS I'm really sorry to anyone who's ever been halfway good at this craft because I'm never gonna try it again /o\
> 
> For the rest: SW doesn't belong to me and the title is... the type of paints that are mentioned in this thing. Special thanks to the whole Kapoor vs Semple discourse for providing me with good material for bantering. God, I can't believe I wrote this. AH WELL. HAVE FUN. IDEK. I'll go back to regular fluff and my regular fandoms now bye. /o\ *saunters back downwards*

Rey stares at the painting. Then she stares at it _some more_.

“You - you think it sucks?”

“What - no!” She’s quick to make sure that Ben - pardon, _Kylo_ , she’s never going to get why her adoptive brother (formerly foster brother) had decided to _change his damned name_ after pursuing this painting career thing - doesn’t start assuming that she thinks the first painting he actually finished in a year sucks ass.

(Rey would still like to know why Ben Solo wasn’t good enough but _Kylo Ren_ was. Whatever. She’s not going to ask.)

And given that she was the first person to convince him to actually _tell his parents_ he wanted to be an artist instead of assuming his (their) father would murder him for not wanting to take over the family business ( _she_ is going to do it, she enjoys flying charter planes way more than he ever did) and that she was the first judge of his art, she really wouldn’t want to be what discourages him, especially after he didn’t paint anything for that long thanks to that arse of an art gallery owner. If Rey ever runs into that Snoke arsehole, she’s going to make him regret all the crap he pulled with her brother, but that’s not the point.

The point is that - it’s not a _bad_ painting. Okay, Rey’s no art expert and her favorite painter is Van Gogh, which has caused endless _you’re so not original_ jokes back in the day, so what does she know, but it’s - good, she supposes. Fine, it’s also wildly different from Ben’s - _Kylo’s_ \- old stuff, but then again he only went for pseudo-abstract mixes of black and various shades of red for a long time, the months before he went into the art block. This is - always pseudo-abstract, she thinks, but it’s - some _ten_ different shades of orange.

“It’s - not your usual stuff,” she says, “but it’s good, everyone should evolve.”

“So - you like it?” He asks, sounding excited.

“Sure. But, uh, the title is a bit… weird.”

“You think _I Hate You_ isn’t strong enough?”

“No, I mean, I wouldn’t _know_. Who is it that you hate? Someone in the painting? There’s _no one_ in the painting. Or is it supposed to be a secret or _something_?”

“It’s supposed to be a secret,” he replies readily.

Rey shrugs. “Well, it’s a nice painting. I don’t know if I get it, but then again it’s not like art ever was _my thing_ , so. As long as you’re happy and you’re doing what you like, it’s all good. You _like_ this, right?”

He shrugs. He never was the most talkative person. “Well, I didn’t hate painting it.”

Given that _everything_ he painted in the last year before this _I hate you_ ended up in the trash, as long as he’s working, who is she to judge him?

“Good,” she says, patting him on the back. He lets her. _Good_ , because six months ago he wouldn’t, and _that_ had been really more than mildly worrying. “But, uh, _who_ it is that you hate? I suppose not _me_. Or your parents.”

Kylo _does_ laugh at that. “Rey, your color palette is _definitely_ light calming earth tones. My mother’s as well and my father, very _not_ surprisingly, goes for contrasts. This is a neon palette. No. It’s - it’s not either of you.”

“Well, good to know, I’d start to get worried if it was either of us,” she says, but then she can’t help wondering.

 _Who_ is this hated person who at the same tome was _somehow_ the reason he got out of his art block? She really would like to know.

But maybe he’ll tell her with time. For now, she’ll just be glad he’s working again and that that arse of a gallery owner didn’t ruin art for him.

 

\--

 

“They _published_ that poem,” Phasma says, staring at the last number of _Agenda_.

“Yes?”

She shakes her head, looking up at her long-time roommate, who has been gloating since the magazine came in the mail.

“Hux.” The first time she tried to use his first name he about glared at her in a frankly unnerving way, and so she didn’t anymore. “You got _that_ poem published on _this_ magazine.”

“What’s so strange about it?”

She rolls her eyes, figuring that he has forgotten something that she’s sure she _had_ made clear.

“What’s strange? That poem sucked.”

“It surely does _not_?”

“Hux, it’s _a series of damned haikus_ titled _You’re a Twat_. It sucks.”

“Well, whoever’s in charge at _Agenda_ doesn’t agree,” Hux says, still gloating.

“Come on, _your dull conversation / bores me / and the universe, too_? What the fuck? It’s _terrible_.”

“It’s nice to see you being your usual supportive self.”

“I’m only as brutally honest as you said you preferred,” she shrugs. “And honestly, it’s _ten_ haikus. About _Kylo Ren_.”

“I never said -”

“Hux, if you think I’m a fucking idiot, you’re wrong. Honest, _I_ introduced the two of you, and you haven’t called anyone _twat_ but him in the last entire bloody year, of course they’re about Kylo Ren. And you worked on this for what, _six months_?”

“I’m a perfectionist!”

“Yeah, ‘course you are,” she sighs.

They published those poems.

 _Published them_.

On a magazine founded by _Ezra Pound_.

Phasma doesn’t want to know who even works there these days, but whoever it is, they’re absolutely unsuited to that job and maybe she should apply for it. Organizing events for Snoke was the worst experience she ever had and she’s entirely glad that arse got arrested - at least they _did_ give her the money he had withheld from her and the rest of the gallery employees and so now she can afford taking less time-consuming jobs while looking for a better one, how hard can it be to select actually _good_ poems?

Then again, she supposes, Hux gets by writing horrible greeting cards while working on what he calls his _magnum opus_ on his spare time, and at this point that thing has to be the length of a modern epic poem given that he’s been doing it since they met each other, and it was what, _five years ago_? If Kylo Ren actually inspired him to write something he actually finished and _ended up published_ then she’s not going to complain. Hell, maybe next time he’ll actually write something showing that he _does_ have talent, because certainly this is not his best effort.

“Well, congratulations,” Phasma says, figuring that if Hux told his father the man didn’t even go as far as that. If he even caught on the information. She’s famous for being an arsehole on the job and no one who ever worked under her had much good to say about her, but she’s not _this_ much of a terrible person. “If anything, if _this_ gets published, then when you actually share the _good_ poetry you’re going to live just off that. But this still sucks ass.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, _still gloating_ , and Phasma knows that within a week the email they sent him to inform him that his haikus were getting published will end up hanged on the wall, but then again with all the effort he puts into poetry she figures she’ll let him have it.

She’ll just be glad, for the umpteenth time, that she picked organizing events as a career and that she doesn’t have a shred of artistic talent in her.

Given how those two met at one event _she_ organized at the gallery - spontaneous poetry writing in front of the paintings they showed - and that they spent it at each others’ throats, she’d rather live in her _dull world of numbers and planners_ , as Hux calls it.

And anyway, those poems _really_ were Hux’s worst.

 

\--

 

Kylo is pondering _what_ shade of orange he’s going to pick for the top left corner of the new painting - this one is all geometric shapes. He thinks he’s going to name it _fuck you_. It should fit what he was thinking about as he planned it.

Then his phone rings with a WhatsApp notification.

He groans out loud.

The bastard _knows_ that he only has WhatsApp because his _mother_ uses it and he hates it and he wouldn’t use it for anyone else, and so he only texts him _there_. Of course.

He opens the conversation and doesn’t look at the picture of the published haiku series in what he _knows_ is his name that Hux sent over with the goddamned _gloating_ emoji with the sunglasses under it.

Shit. He _knows_ Kylo hates fucking _emojis_ , especially since _his father_ uses them.

Emojis.

Whatever. He reads the message.

 

_I need to write something for a competition. The deadline is the day after tomorrow._

 

He snorts.

 

_Well, I need to sell a series of ten watercolors and I got stuck at the sixth._

 

He sends the message. The notification sign turns blue a second after.

 

 _Where_?

 

He shrugs and thinks about it - Hux’s place has a nicer bed, sure, but he has paint on his hands and he has to get it off them, so he would waste a lot more time if he got rid of it and _then_ went to Hux’s place, never mind that last time Phasma walked in on them and fuck if he would rather _never_ have that experience again in his life.

 

 _My place. Half an hour_.

 

He waits.

 

 _Forty-five minutes_.

 

That was _most probably_ out of pure spite, but who cares - better for him, he can take a full shower then.

 

_Fine._

 

He puts the phone offline and heads for the shower - hopefully this new brand of oil he had been trying out won’t be the kind that takes a hell of a lot of time to wash off. He considers hiding the painting, but who even gives two fucks - Hux _knows_ , he _had_ texted him a picture of _I Hate You_ before selling it to some critic who was absolutely enamored with it.

He smiles to himself and heads for the shower.

\--

Forty minutes later, he’s wearing only his pajama pants and he _still_ has some of that dark orange oil paint under his nails - fine, this is the kind that doesn’t get out easy. Well, _whatever_. He dries his hair without bothering to style it, it’s not as if he won’t have to wash it again later.

He’s considering putting away the brushes he had left lying around, along with the oil colors, but then the doorbell rings and he goes to open it, taking his good time.

And _there_ he is on the other side. Of course, he’s pristinely dressed, _all_ in black, all most probably clean and just coming out of the wardrobe, perfectly ironed. Kylo will agree on the color choice, but there’s a limit to _how much_ you can be anal when it comes to your clothes.

“Goodness,” Hux snorts, “are you in _pajamas_?”

“Yeah, _Armitage_ , I’m in my pajamas. I figured there was no point in dressing up given what you’re here for.”

“I told you to _not_ call me like that, _Ben_.”

“Fine, _fine_ , point taken. Are you coming in or not?”

Hux does, taking off his pristinely kept leather coat and carefully putting it on the chair nearby.

 _Then_ , he sees the halfway-done painting hanging on the tripod, with its bright, _bright_ orange shapes popping out from his pitch black background.

He _really_ likes how it’s coming together.

“ _That_ is Black 2.0?” Hux asks, sounding like it’s disgusting him to even mutter the name, but then again he sounded like that even when reciting his own damned poetry - just slightly less so.

“Sure it is,” Kylo replies. “And you aren’t even a _painter_ , what would you know?”

“It’s _cheap_ ,” Hux says, with a minute shrug. “ _Anyone_ can use it.”

“And not everyone can do it right, never mind that it’s not as if I want to risk that arsehole’s Kapoor’s wrath to intoxicate myself with his precious _Vantablack_.”

“Semple is just catering to the masses.”

“And here I am, _not_ surprised in the slightest that you got published on a journal _Ezra Pound_ founded.”

“The hell are you implying?”

“That this idea that you shouldn’t _cater to the masses_ is a rather fascist approach to art, you know?”

He _knows_ that Hux is _not_ going to take that well, and he had been waiting for it - a moment later, the little arse has walked up to him and pinned him against the wall with enough strength to actually leave him surprised, for a moment. Hm. He must have been working out, since they did it last.

“Ren, I’d like you to know,” he hisses, “that while Pound’s politics are, well, frankly reprehensible, there is nothing wrong with his _poetry_.”

“You haven’t said nothing about your _approach_.”

“Art is _serious_! You can’t assume _anyone_ can do it.”

“‘Course not,” he says, and then he moves forward and flips their position, pushing Hux towards the opposite wall, and patience if his colors crash to the ground because he hits the small table he kept them on along the way - he’ll live. He can buy some more, if needed. “But it would be _very_ antidemocratic to _not_ let anyone try now, wouldn’t it?” He says, fully knowing it’ll get Hux mad, and when he opens his mouth to reply Kylo just moves in and kisses him without finesse at all, and fine, he hadn’t taken into account Hux pushing back against him but he’s still taller and stronger and that’s how they end up crashing to the ground, _on_ his oils, and he has a feeling that later he’ll need more than a shower, but _who gives a fuck_ , not now.

Thing is -

It’s a bruising kiss, their mouths clashing against the other and Hux gripping at his back like he wants it to hurt and that’s _exactly_ how he likes it, and he’s trying to flip them over but Kylo won’t let him (not for now anyway) and so he’s waiting for it when Hux bites down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Wow,” Kylo says, moving back, “you want that poem to be _really_ experimentally brutal, don’t you?”

“Just shut the fuck up,” Hux says, pushing his hips upwards so that his crotch is pressed up against Kylo’s and damn, he’s _damn_ well hard under that pressed suit of his, isn’t he?

(Kylo is getting there, too, but given that he’s wearing pajamas _without_ his underwear, he has a feeling he won’t be wheezing for release in five minutes, differently from what Hux is about to do.)

“Nah,” Kylo says, “I think you want _me_ to shut you the fuck up.”

“Do I,” Hux huffs, and -

Well then.

Good thing that it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, and that he knows what he’s doing, he thinks, and then his hand goes around Hux’s neck, his thumb finding his pulse, and his other hand working Hux’s belt open - _too many layers_ , damn it.

He’s expecting it when suddenly the hold Hux has on his back goes slightly lax - he’s still grabbing at his back and he’ll definitely have bruises tomorrow, but now he’s not grasping hard enough to draw blood and Kylo can feel his pulse quickening against his skin -

And he hasn’t even done _anything_ yet.

He finally gets rid of the belt, his knees around Hux’s hips, thinking about how much he’s going to enjoy ruining that damned ironed suit. He _could_ say something about how even the man’s bloody _underwear_ is the same color as his shirt, but he’s not in the mood to draw this on much longer and so he makes sure Hux can see _exactly_ how much he’s enjoying this as he reaches inside his pristinely ironed underwear (shit, who even _irons_ underwear these days?) and takes him in hand, and at the same time sightly, _sightly_ increases the pressure on the sides of Hux’s neck, making sure there’s space in between his fingers and the rest of the man’s neck where he’s not gripping it, and _then_ he can see the pale skin on his cheeks going slightly redder, and then some _more_ -

He doesn’t even bother being gentle as his fingers close around the head of Hux’s dick and start jerking him off, _slow_.

For the first handful of seconds anyway, because then he increases the pressure, just a tiny bit, and picks up a slightly faster rhythm before stopping there, feeling Hux becoming harder against his fingers and looking at his pupils dilate, black taking over that lovely shade of blue (if only it wasn’t _always_ angry, even if he enjoys the fire in it).

“You haven’t -” Hux wheezes, “- shut me up yet, Ren.”

“Hm,” he hums, “true. I need to step up my game, I think.”

And then he presses _harder_.

Hux’s pulse suddenly quickens under his thumb and he can feel it thrumming under his fingertip, while his throat’s skin gets crazy warm when it was fairly cold the moment he touched it, and that’s when he notices that they’re _kind_ of lying in between opened tubes of paint that’s scattered all over the floor, and Hux’s shirt is getting stained in Crush orange. And of course the shirt is black.

“Maybe,” he says, “maybe I should keep that shirt and use it for my next painting.”

He looks down into Hux’s blue eyes that are half-pupil by now, and he can see that he _wants_ to be angry at him but _can’t_ , and not just because the instinct to just give in to _other_ types of impulses might be stronger, but also because Kylo’s hold on his throat is strong enough that he really can’t speak, and _fuck_ but he thinks he might come without even help.

“And you know how I’d call it?” He goes on, picking up the pace of the hand still jerking off the man’s dick, and fuck but he’s so hard against his fingers that it has to fucking hurt.

“This one,” he whispers, “I think I’ll name it _Fuck You_. The next one? Could be _I’ve fucked you_ , unless you’ve got - a better idea.”

And _then_ he can feel it - he knows Hux is about to come, he can _feel_ it, and the grip he has is strong enough that he knows he’s _this_ close and that he can barely breathe right now, and by now Hux’s eyes have gone fully _desperate_ , and -

Fine then.

He suddenly lets Hux’s throat go, lets him take in a few ragged breaths and then leans down and kisses him fully, rough, his hand moving behind Hux’s head and grasping at his hair, _tugging_ -

And then he can feel him go rigid and come against his hand, _hard_ , and when Hux’s hands go back to his hair and _grasp_ he lets him - and then he notices that there’s a pool of Black 2.0 paint just next to them. Actually, _that_ also got stuck to Hux’s jacket.

He half-grins into the kiss, reaches out, sticks his hand inside it and then grasps the back of Hux’s neck with it, feeling him shudder because the acrylic is _cold_ , and then he can feel Hux going slightly slacker against him - he’s not shuddering against him anymore, and Kylo’s still so hard it’s almost painful.

“So,” he huffs, “I _did_ shut you up, didn’t I?”

“Fuck you,” Hux wheezes, not sounding at all convinced.

“Nah,” Kylo replies, pushing him back against the ground, where the Crush orange pool of acrylic is mixing with some other oil paint. He doesn’t care for being particularly gentle.

Not that he _cares_ or that Hux does - they’ve done this enough times that he knows neither of them likes it gentle, and good thing he took plenty anatomy lessons in art school and he knows exactly where to put his hands.

“But I think,” he says, “that I should shut you up again.”

He moves forward, and pushes down his pajama pants down his hips - fuck, he doesn’t know how long he’ll last for how hard he is, but then he sees for a moment Hux’s tongue slightly, _slightly_ wetting his lips.

He doesn’t even _say_ anything before canting his hips downwards in the right direction, holding up Hux’s head at exactly the right angle as he parts his lips and takes him into his mouth, and _fuck_ but while he’s never going to manage to fit his entire dick in, he’s too hard, he moans out loud the moment Hux’s tongue runs angrily along his head and then takes _more_ of him into his mouth.

 _Yes_ , he thinks as he reaches down and grabs at the man’s hair, without doing anything further - after all, he’s doing what he’s supposed to and he _should_ let him breathe a bit.

 _For now_ , he thinks as he fucks into his mouth harder the moment Hux _moans_ against his cock, and if he’ll have to wash come off the floor along with his paints, _who even cares_.

And then he’s coming inside Hux’s mouth and he really, _really_ is beyond caring anymore.

—

“You ruined my suit,” Hux complains later, when they’re both laying down on the ground and catching their breath - him more than Kylo, truth to be told.

“Your suit’s going on my new painting,” Kylo declares.

“Like _hell_ ,” Hux wheezes, his cheeks going red all over again.

“Oh, if you’re going to be like _that_ about it, I can buy it off you.”

“Ah, then you can keep it the whole thing. Except that _how do I go home_ , according to you?”

“You can borrow some of mine, then I can go back to yours to have them back. Don’t be so _square_ , Armitage, you need to relax.”

“ _Fuck you_ , Ren.”

“How many poems have I just _inspired you_ , by the way? Because if you need a round two, I have a free afternoon.” And then he runs his hand inside the black pool of paint again - that’s really some acrylic, it hasn’t gotten dry yet - and brings his hand around Hux’s throat, _again_ , not choking but enough that it’s almost all covered in black paint.

“I - I suppose I’m not done yet,” Hux admits a moment later, as if it _costs_ for him to do it.

Kylo smirks. “Then I think I’m not either. And by the way, if we had been doing this in _Vantablack_ , we’d both be heading to the nearest hospital.”

“You’re a bloody fucking arse and I hate you,” Hux scoffs.

“I know. It was in your published haiku. The third one, I think,” Kylo smirks, and then he leans in for another kiss, slamming Hux against the ground without too much finesse, his tongue meeting Hux’s frenetically, his hand _still_ on the other man’s neck -

And he can’t help thinking what he does every damned time they do this.

The man is an insufferable prick who’s way too full of himself and who needs to _relax_ , but damn it if it’s not the best sex they’ll both ever have.

And if it means he gets painting inspiration out of it, all the better for it. After all, it’s a quid pro quo, and those haikus weren’t _that_ terrible after all.

Not that he’s ever going to tell Hux _that_ , he decides, and then he bites down on Hux’s bottom lip, feeling a tiny trickle of blood along his tongue, and he knows they’ll be at this for a long while.

Good. He’s entirely up for the challenge, and _maybe_ he’ll send Hux one of the extra watercolors he has to finish before the end of the week.

 _Maybe_.

 

 

End.


End file.
